Falling In
by BelleLitteraire
Summary: Songfic, inspired by Lifehouse and garage scene in 2x05. Winner of a Highclere Award (Finalist, for Songfic).
1. Chapter 1

_**Falling In**_

_To my FFN friends across the pond:  
__**btvs**: thanks for another stunning canon vid, and because you like songfics  
__**MissPixieWay**: because we agree that political talk never sounded so hot ;)_

_This song appears on Lifehouse's _Smoke & Mirrors.  
_Songwriters: Jason Michael Wade, Kevin Rudolf, Jude Anthony Cole, Jacob Kasher_

* * *

_Every time I see your face  
My heart takes off on a high speed chase  
Now don't be scared, it's only love  
That we're falling in  
_

Sybil is walking past the library and overhears Carson and Papa discussing the logistics of fetching Mary at the railway station at 11:00 PM. Carson acknowledges Papa's instructions: "Very good, Milord. I will have one of the hallboys tell Mr. Branson." At that moment, she reacts quickly and bounds inside the half-open door, "I am going for a walk, Papa. I myself can go to the garage and tell him." She doesn't care that Carson looks at her quizzically, only that Papa's consent is freely given.

She doesn't really want to admit to herself why she must be the one to give the message to the handsome chauffeur. All she knows is that she wants to see his face, and this is a heaven-sent opportunity to visit him at the garage. Her steps on the paved walk sound confident and steady, and she hopes that they are loud enough to conceal the pounding of her heart. She pauses near the entrance of the garage, and suddenly she is aware of the summer heat, of the perspiration that moistens her palms and of the dryness of her mouth. She licks her lips and takes the sight of him in. It is a familiar one—he is seated on the running board of the Renault, his nose buried inside the pages of a newspaper. She can hear the rustling of the pages as he turns them, engrossed in whatever current event is printed on those pages. She strides into the garage, crisply announcing, "Mary's telephoned. She'll be on the late train that gets in at eleven."

She's not really sure what to say next, after he responds, "All right." For a moment she struggles to find another topic of conversation, and thankfully he asks after William. But then she notices that he wears a faraway look, one of a driver who sees that the air in the front tire is low and knows he will be keeping the Dowager Countess waiting. It is enough to worry her, and she asks, "What is it?"

He tells her of the shocking news he's just read.

_This feeling has swallowed me whole  
And I know that I've lost control  
This heart that I've followed  
Has left me so hollow  
That was then, this is now, yeah you have changed everything_

Branson hadn't meant to touch her. He only wants her company, to have her stay a while. He had done it without thinking: he meant to reach for her arm, not her hand—he already tried that once and had gotten burned—but she was moving so swiftly, he had to stop her, and his hand fell at her waist. He knows he's made a far more dangerous breach of conduct with that touch, and he sees her eyes widen in what? shock? dismay? He swallows and puts the offending hand in his pocket, but he yearns to say fully what's been in his heart for so long. He finds himself babbling about sacrifices, but he knows he's showing a shameful lack of courage as he buries the truth. He's already tried to ask, at the garden party, "I don't suppose…" and couldn't finish. He's made two promises at York, where he was too nervous to articulate everything in his heart. Now all of what he feels is truly important is still left unsaid and he wants to tell her, "I am still in love with you. Do you even love me? Please, if you do, reconsider a life with me. Marry me."

But his words about hard sacrifices seem to have an effect on her. She is looking at him—at his eyes, at his mouth, and her peony lips are parted, like she's thirsting and only he might be able to quench it. He wants so badly to trace those lips with his fingertips, or better still, taste them. But he must content himself to hold only her eyes steadily with his, since he cannot use his hands to hold hers, while she considers.

**x-x**

The touch at her waist shakes her to the core. She's felt this reeling sensation once before, also on a scorching day, when her fingers brushed his and she discovered she is holding his hand. She can feel his penetrating gaze, can feel the coercion of it, like a gravitational pull into his orbit. But there's something pure and guileless about his look as well, like he is telling her how much he loves her. His eyes are distractingly blue, his mouth so inviting…if she just leaned in a little bit…she hears "sacrifice…future that's worth having…" and finally her focus snaps back clearly at "That's up to you." She blinks.

It is precisely because she knows what he wants and what she wants that she walks away.

_I would never do you wrong  
Or let you down or lead you on  
Don't look down, it's only love  
Baby, that we're falling in  
_

He closes his eyes. He knows he's pushed her again, and this time it might have been too far. He has been trying to blur the knife edge of a boundary between mistress and servant, for months trying to convince her of his devotion, of his desire to make her happy. Her steps echo and fade and he is again alone with thoughts that swirl in the maddening heat.

He is arrogant, but it is an act he must put on to shield his bruised heart. Even when he challenged her and said she was scared to admit she was in love with him, it was a risk to say it aloud, to articulate what he hoped were her feelings.

He was enchanted by her from the moment he first saw her, when he had waited at the car, still and stiff as a soldier. He had held the car door open and a pretty girl in powder blue caught his eye. Since then he has been drawn to her like a moth to a flame that could scorch its wings. He has waited so long, and he is no longer sure whether he will ever win her love. But why does she give him reason to hope that she likes him? She keeps popping into the garage, a dirty outbuilding that reeks of petrol, oily rags, and musty wash buckets. He knows he makes her laugh, that she doesn't just come to him so she can learn the latest world news or hear him opine on suffragettes and socialism and conscientious objections. He sighs. The reason he's here is to work, and he would do well to remember that.

* * *

_Next time: verse 2 and bridge_


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm standing in your driveway  
It's midnight and I'm sideways  
I have to find out if you feel the same  
Won't be easy, have my doubts too  
But it's over, without you I'm just lost, incomplete  
Yeah you feel like home, home to me  
_

In the dark of her room, Sybil kicks her blankets off. The sweltering heat of the day has cooled somewhat, but she still feels stifled. Sleep eludes her: she sees him gazing at her, with all the worship in his heart reflected in his eyes. She cannot stop thinking about the flutters and electricity she felt earlier that afternoon. She hears Mary and Anna in the hall, talking in quiet tones on their way to Mary's room, and she glances at the clock on her bedside table. It is almost midnight, and she decides to sneak out of the house to see him. She tiptoes out of bed and hastily dresses (thank goodness she's learned to do it without a maid), but leaves her hair braided.

The bright moonlight shines her path to the garage. A single light is on, and she spies him fastidiously tidying the interior of the Renault. He has discarded his hat, jacket, and tie, and his uniform shirt is open at the neck and the sleeves rolled up. He closes the door, and moves to turn off the light.

"Branson," she softly calls, peeking around the garage door.

His head snaps sharply toward the sound of her voice. "Milady? What are you doing here this time of night?"

She blushes and bites her lower lip. She hasn't exactly thought this through. "I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry, I didn't think how late it must be and that you might be tired. How thoughtless of me."

"I'm not worried about that, Milady. I'm more worried that someone would catch you here and I'd be sent packing without a reference."

"I've come here lots of times," she says, a little hurt that he isn't exactly pleased to see her.

"Not at this time of night."

She steps farther inside the garage, so close to him that in the electric light he can see her cheeks tinted rose and her sapphire eyes ablaze. "Do you want me to go?" she whispers.

He falls under her spell again and there is no other answer. "No."

There is nowhere for them to sit in the garage, and he doesn't offer entry into his cottage. So he opens the door of the Renault and helps her inside. He switches off the electric light and the garage no longer is bathed in an incandescent glow but a moonlit one. He climbs in the backseat beside her, and hesitates, his hand on the door, and decides to leave it open.

"Thinking about a quick escape?" she says in jest.

He runs his hand on the back of his neck. "It feels strange to sit in the back, is all, Milady," he chuckles, his laugh low and warm.

She sees that charming smile and her pulse and her breath quicken in response. There is something rather reckless and exhilarating to be sitting in the shadows and silence of the dark with him. A realization dawns on her: she no longer cares about the details. She looks at him and sees her best friend, who makes her laugh, who encourages her to be a better version of herself, and who challenges her—emotionally and intellectually. She's never known anyone like him—all swagger and passion and vulnerability wrapped up in this person sitting next to her—and she's afraid to lose him. She's almost lost him several times, when he decided to hand in his notice, when he was called up, when Carson almost sacked him. And now she realizes he is her heart's desire and she doesn't want another moment to pass before she can reveal her own heart. "Would you call me Sybil? Just Sybil, without the honorific?"

Those questions are a point of no return, and the answer is a moment of truth. They feel it—their hearts, not their heads, tell them what is true. She is laying herself bare, unshackling herself from the constraints of her title, and he knows this is a courageous declaration of her own.

"Only if you call me Tom," he replies.

The sound of her hushed, husky voice pronouncing his Christian name intoxicates him. She smiles alluringly, like she's keeping something secret, and he wants to wade into her, to be let in on the mystery. He resists the temptation to touch her, to pull the black silk that binds her plaited hair, fearful of crushing this fragile camaraderie. So he smiles back, watching the way the moonlight highlights the contours of her face. "I was feeling downcast earlier, and I wasn't expecting to see you this afternoon," he says.

"I wanted to see you," she says simply and honestly. It feels good to be open with him, at this moment, to shed the pretences and not hide behind manners and the ceremony that polite society demands. _This is what it must feel like to be a liberated woman, to tell people how you really feel, _she thinks.

"I'm glad you came by. I was hoping to see a friendly face. The news from Russia has really shaken me."

Conscious of that slim space that separates them, she moves deliberately closer on the seat, almost imperceptibly, and places her hand on his. "At the risk of sounding flippant—and I really don't mean to be—I don't want to talk about politics tonight."

For a moment, he is riveted by the sight of her hand on his, then he takes hold of it. He turns it over and slowly runs his thumb on her wrist and her palm. Her skin is smooth and fine, and he raises her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. He is relieved that she doesn't pull away. "Sybil, do you love me?"

"Yes," she answers without hesitation. "I really do. I love you." A feeling ripples through her, intense and intimate. Oh how she wants to press her lips to his, but she knows she's been forward enough.

He wants so badly to show her how happy he is to hear her say those three words, but something tells him that now is not the time to kiss her, and not in the backseat of her father's car. So he simply looks straight into her eyes, saying, "It's never been a secret how I feel about you." She brightens, holding his hand in both of hers, and lays her head on his shoulder.

They sit in comfortable silence, wrapped up in romantic heartstirrings, loving glances, and the feel of each other's skin.

This _pas de deux_ lasts only a few minutes that seem to stretch for hours. Negative thoughts of what may come to pass but have not yet become reality start to insinuate and intrude, and she doesn't quite know what they do next. But she knows that she can't linger. She has to go back to the house, and he to his cottage. "I have to go," she sighs, breaking the spell.

_All those nights I stayed awake  
Thinking of all the ways to make you mine  
All of those smiles were never faked  
Never run out of ways to blow my mind  
_

He can feel the warmth of her fingers laced through his as he walks her partway back to the house. At the edge of the lawn, he doesn't quite let her go yet, and he feels like he might be pinched awake from this dream. He needs to hear the words one more time before she goes. "Say it again," he implores.

"What?" she coyly asks.

He grins sheepishly. "Are you still making this rough on me?"

Her lips turn up in that secret seductive smile. "I love you, Tom Branson."

He exhales. Let the rush of consequences and the challenges of tomorrow come—he feels ready to take them straight on if she is by his side. And tonight, in this moment, God knows it's enough that she has finally said she loves him. He would sleep restfully, sound in the knowledge that they have shared an irrevocable moment. His eyes roam over her face, the curve of her jaw, the curls that frame her lovely face, the scent of her that reminds him of how angels ought to smell. He is imprinting the memory of it all to carry with him into bed tonight. "Good night Sybil. Sleep well."

"I'll see you when I can steal away," she promises.

"When will that be?" Suddenly he is anxious to know when he would see her again.

"Have a little faith in me, Tom." She squeezes his hand reassuringly, and then adds with an impish twinkle in her eye, "I've gotten quite good at sneaking off, or haven't you noticed?"

They part, and he stays on the edge of the lawn, watching as she disappears back into the great house. It is way past midnight, and like the change that occurs at that time in fairy tales, she turns back into Lady Sybil and he into Branson the chauffeur.


End file.
